


Of Soccer Moms (And Tennis Dads)

by dusktodawn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Author's Universe, Cop!Dean, Dean and Cas have kids but not together, Doctor!Cas, M/M, probably smut at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dusktodawn/pseuds/dusktodawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean and his daughter move to Rock Creek, Minnesota, he’d hoped to find peace and space to sort through the aftershocks of a painful divorce. Fate, it seems, has other plans; in the form of Dr. Novak and his son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s pushing ninety-five degrees out and Dean is the last place on earth he wants to be- umpiring his daughter’s first tennis match. He’d only found out about his duties yesterday, Maddie had dropped that particular bombshell over dinner, leaving Dean scrambling to make sure he could get from his shift to the school in time. Really, if he had wanted to play referee between squabbling, irritated children on a semi-permanent sugar high, he would have stayed at the station. Not to say that his fellow officers hadn’t done their best to make him welcome, but Dean, with a work ethic fuelled by the fast-pace of Seattle’s beat, had taken a while to get used to Rock Creek’s slower speed and lackadaisical approach to correct police protocol. Understandable, he thought, when most of the work came from hauling injured animals off of the highways. Naturally, it would take time to earn their respect- the previous Captain had held her position well over thirty years- but he had plenty of time. Maddie was going to grow up here, he could afford to settle in. And there were worse places to settle in, as well- the town had a mismatched charm and was aptly named for its rocky ravines and crystalline lake. When they’d passed it this morning, it had been almost shimmering in the heat.

Absently, he wiped his hand across his brow, and squinted at the kid about to serve across the net. Maddie, to her credit, was crouched low on the receiving end, fairy-blonde hair tied up in a purple scrunchie, brown eyes glinting. At seven and a half, she looked, he reflected with pride, like a mini Maria Sharapova, and had clearly inherited Dean’s competitive streak, not to mention her low tolerance for temperatures above eighty. She keeps glancing at him with an irritated glare, as if the veritable heat wave they are currently experiencing is his fault. If it had been up to him, the match would have been cancelled, considering his tennis shoes are about to sink into the asphalt of the court.  
A voice in his head tells him that’s a slight exaggeration, but it sounds suspiciously like Sam, so he ignores it.

The dark haired kid on the other side of the net tosses the ball skywards.

Dean wonders if it’s irresponsible to take Maddie to the Roadhouse on the way home so he can score a cold beer, and maybe a bit of banter with Ellen Harvelle, his deputy’s wisecracking mother.

The ball whizzes past Dean’s right ear. Maddie lunges, the tip of her purple rhinestone-bejewelled racquet just missing the neon missile. It was a good serve, the kid’s been delivering perfect aces for the last half-hour, even if he lacks the ferocity with which Maddie goes after the ball.

“Deuce,” he announces. He pronounces it _juice_ , but whatever.

“No, advantage,” a gravelly voice says from behind him. Dean turns to eye a gangly man, early thirties, who’s wearing dark slacks and an entirely too-formal white button-down. A tie hangs haphazardly around his neck and his hair sticks out from his head in a manner that’s nearly horizontal. He looks unruffled by the Saharan climate, which is irritating, and he’s staring at Dean intently with large blue eyes, which is an entirely different kind of irritating altogether, the kind that makes Dean wish he’d put on something else besides an ancient Zeppelin t-shirt. He raises an eyebrow, because the dude’s only just got here, he doesn’t have a clue.

“I’m the ump. Deuce.”

“I was paying attention. Advantage.”

“Uh, no. _Deuce_ ,” he repeats, and turns back to the game.

“ _Advantage_ ,” Comes the insistent reply, and Dean whirls around because they are grown men, and he will not have this kind of childish argument when his skin feels as though it’s about to melt right off. The guy is doing this weird kind of squinted head-tilt, and he seems almost…amused?

“Listen, buddy,” he starts, before he catches his daughter shaking her head frantically in his peripheral vision, her cheeks flaming. Dean turns back to her, mouthing a question, to which she nods solemnly. He takes a brief moment to pause, gathering his composure.

“Advantage,” he grudgingly repeats, and does not turn to look behind him. Several points later when he does, if only to see whether he’s still being squinted at by that unearthly gaze, he finds the man has disappeared. He’s sitting in the shade of the gazebo, with the rest of the parents, mostly women, who are crowded around him as if he’s the messiah.

When the dark-haired boy wins fair and square about a quarter-hour later, Dean is a little relieved. Even Maddie seems to brighten up, taking being bested far better than Dean would have at her age.

“You’re really good,” she says admiringly to the other, grinning and coaxing out one in return. The boy has the good grace to mutter a “you too” before dashing off to the gazebo. Dean clapped a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, and when she looks up at him with a sunny smile, the heat doesn’t seem as oppressive.

“Good work, sport,” he offered, ruffling her hair, which she tosses back over her shoulder like a queen.

“Just wait for baseball season.”

“You’ll knock ‘em dead,” Dean agrees, before allowing her to join her teammates under the shade for popsicles and a de-briefing. It’s only then that he notices Maddie’s opponent is sitting in the guy’s lap, quietly animated and cheerful. Blue-Eyes is smiling, ruffling up the kid’s hair, and they’re practically carbon copies of each other. _Great._ Maddie, being the great sport she is, goes to sit next to the boy and begins chattering away until the coach starts to talk, and then switches to whispering after that. The kid looks utterly taken in, under his daughter’s spell like everyone else in the world, gazing at her with wide eyes and a smile to match, as if he’s not used to people talking to him. Dean takes his seat next to his not-really-but-kind of- opponent, doing his best not to acknowledge him. As the coach finishes talking, Dean exchanges waves and smiles with some of the other parents and effortlessly swings Maddie up onto his shoulders, making her squeal. He thinks part of her popsicle is running down his neck, but chooses not to acknowledge it. It’s only then that he hears the guy clear his throat next to him, and Dean turns to acknowledge it. He’s holding his son’s hand and proffering what looks like a frozen carton in the other, complete with a tiny straw.

“Juice?” He offers, and the mirth in his eyes stops Dean in his tracks. Great, a smartass  _and_ know-it-all. Rock Creek seems to be full of these. Maybe it’s something in the water, he mused.

“Yeah. Very funny, wise guy,” he mutters, flushing, but takes the apple juice anyway and makes what he likes to think is a dignified retreat towards Baby.

“I _like_ them,” Maddie chirps happily.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is banter. And brownies. 
> 
> All of you who read, comment and leave kudos are greatly appreciated.

Dean had always considered himself pretty lucky to actually like his job. Sure, it doesn’t pay great and he was in trouble with the law enough in his youth to put him off authority figures for life, but he figured that being on the winning side couldn’t do him any harm. And it hadn’t. He escaped an office job and got to help people out, and the stringent fitness rules made sure he didn’t develop a beer-belly. In Seattle, there was something new to deal with every day- maximum bad-guy catching, minimum paperwork.

It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that Rock Creek was the exact opposite.

It’s ten PM on a Sunday night and the station is dead. His desk is strewn with paperwork dating back to the eighties, half-eaten food and Styrofoam coffee cups. The station is tiny; two holding cells, a front desk and a bullpen, and Dean’s office barely has room to cram in a tiny desk, computer and a filing cabinet. He’s pulled the late shift with his deputy, Jo, who needs the hours, and their IT guy, Ash, who spends most of his waking hours here but Dean has yet to see him do any actual work. They’re the only three full time cops, but there are four others who work three days a week, or half-days. Something that Dean thinks would be fucking fantastic, if he wasn’t, you know, the boss. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he despairs of the paperwork and strolls out to where Jo is half-asleep, shooting hoops through a mini basketball net in the corner.

“Anything?” He asks half-hopefully, but the short blonde woman only snorts, and jabs her pencil at the radio in the corner.

“There’s been nothing since March.” Dean despairs, and turns away. Ash, meanwhile is staring at his computer screen with a look of intense concentration. When he spots Dean, he begins typing furiously, and Dean is willing to bet his pay check he’s playing Tetris. Unexpectedly, the radio crackles to life with an ancient hiss.

“Mike-Tango-Whiskey-Seven to Daddy-o, come in,” chirps a little girl who is up way past her bedtime. Jo tosses him the radio with a smirk, mouthing “Daddy-o” tauntingly. Dean ignores her for the time being. He’d long since taught Maddie to use the radio, because he wasn’t willing for her to have a phone, not until she was at least thirteen.

“Madison Taylor Winchester, it is ten o’clock,” he intones, trying to sound stern. “Where’s Kevin?” On the nights Dean worked late, the seventeen-year-old next door came over to babysit.

“He thinks I’m asleep,” she whispered back.

“And why aren’t you?”

“My school party is tomorrow. It’s gonna be awesome.” Dean briefly considered telling her that sleeping would make the morning come faster, but little girls who believe in dragons and unicorns usually don’t grasp that kind of logic.

“That’s nice, sweetie. Try and sleep now.”

“Daddy,” her voice comes back after a few minutes, unusually bright and chirpy. He’s instantly suspicious. “Did you make the cake?”

“The what?”

“You were s’posed to make a cake!” His daughter has the gall to sound indignant.

“How was I s’posed to know about that?” He asked, rubbing his forehead before letting it rest against the wall.

“I gave you the note,” Maddie says, and although she doesn’t say it, the _duh_ is implied.

“Did not.” At this point in time Dean is almost certain her backpack is where vital educational information goes to die.

“Did so.”

“Did-“ Dean cuts himself off, well aware he’s become the most amusing thing in the station by now. “I’ll handle it, Mads, but you’d better be asleep by the time I get home.”

“Mike-Tango-Whiskey-Seven Out,” she replies, and rings off. Dean spares a glance at the clock, remembering that the grocery store shuts at ten-thirty.

“Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.” Frantically, he throws on his jacket, grabs his wallet, and vaults over the nearest desk. “I’ll be back!” He tosses over his shoulder, leaving the station at a run. Jo says something witty and biting, but he doesn’t catch it.

The grocery store is tiny and mostly shut, but he pleads with the kid on the night shift to let him in, and she does. Everything is always baked and made fresh, so he hopes for a pie he can heat up and claim kudos to, but no such luck. He’s half running through the aisles, scanning for something, anything, when he spots it out of the corner of his eye. It’s a single box of packet brownie mix, probably full of sugar and additives and ridiculously overpriced. No doubt it will look and taste like shit, but right now, it’s the holy grail.

Encouraged, he rounds the corner, only to come face to face with a pair of familiar blue eyes. This time he’s wearing a look of pure desperation, and a overlarge trench coat on top of his rumpled suit. There’s purple crayon on his unbuttoned collar, and what looks suspiciously like a spaghetti-O stuck to his forehead. It’s not endearing, he tells himself, and narrows his eyes.

“School party?” He asks. Blue Eyes inclines his head slightly, gaze fixed on the solitary box of brownie mix, and edges closer. Dean’s hand twitches, reminded stupidly of dozens of such standoffs in bad cowboy movies, before he uncurls his palms into the universal gesture of placation. If he threw in a charming little smile as well, well, that’s his business.

“Hey, how about we just-“ Blue Eyes lunges unexpectedly for the box catching Dean off-guard. He lunges in turn for the other man, colliding with his shoulder. They don’t bring down the shelf, but it’s a near thing.

“That’s-mine,” he hisses, managing to get a hold of the box and tugging, but the guy has it clutched to his chest, half doubled over.

“No, I saw it first,” he replied with maddening calmness. Dean tries again to make a grab for it, and really, he should have managed just fine, given his training, but the brunet is a scrappy little fellow who manages to dig a bony elbow into Dean’s ribs.

“The fuck you did,” Dean gasps out, wondering if that constitutes assault. They continue scrabbling for several minutes, and it isn’t until the ponytailed sophomore doing inventory happens upon them that he realises just how ridiculous this is. Caught, he straightens out, forced to let go of the little blue box of salvation. Dean glares at the other man, not liking the way the girl has practically melted upon sight of his opponent. His irritation is somehow increased when he realises the stupid spaghetti-O is still stuck to his forehead. Blue-Eyes ambles away to the checkout, leaving a five dollar bill and raising a hand in farewell.

After ten minutes of begging and pleading, the cashier took pity on him and Googled the simplest cake recipe known to man, then helped him find the right ingredients. She even writes out the recipe, and so Dean leaves a generous tip and hustles it back to the station. Ash is out of it at his desk and Jo’s got a beer, which he plucks from her hands and takes a good slug of before he tosses it in the trash, tugging her upwards.

 “C’mon. Can you show me how to work the oven?” He pleads, and she narrows her eyes. “Jo, hell, we both know you’re the only one who knows how to work it, ‘cause you’re a”- Jo grows a foot, and Dean clutches his bags protectively to his chest.

“’Cause I’m a?” She asks cheerfully.

“Genius,” Dean supplies helpfully, giving her a grin and hoping she’ll take pity on him. She follows him into the kitchen muttering under her breath.

Three quarters of an hour later, Dean is sticky, in pain, and has a migrane the size of Michigan coming on. He also has what is recognisably a cake, the basic sponge kind, with some sort of strawberry jam in the middle and sugary icing on the top.

“I owe you a beer,” he tells Jo, giving her a high-five. She snickers.

“I’d prefer a raise.” 

"Double-time,” he counter-offers.

“Done.” Having smelt the food, Ash has wandered to the kitchen. Dean tilts his body protectively across his creation, and he tries not to see the way Jo’s hand drifts to her belt.

“If you value your life, don’t even think about it,” she warns. Dean and Ash both nod emphatically. Dean carefully seals it in a container and finally clocks off by about midnight, careful to ease the door open gently. Kevin, consummate nerd he is, is snoring on his couch with a medical textbook nearly smothering him. Dean can’t help but lift it off of him, draping the teenager in a blanket before climbing into bed. The window is open and he stares at the ceiling for a while, eyes straining to make out the spider-web of cracked plasterboard that stretches out above him.

Blindly, he tries remember what it was like to have a body curled up next to him, somebody to wake up tangled around, and when his eyes start to water he tells himself it’s only the chill of the wind. He pictures his wife, his beautiful, insufferable wife, the first girl he’d kissed and the only one who had been able to break him. He remembered school and then college with her, how overjoyed he’d been, how lucky he had felt to have at least that one part of him ticked off, pencilled in. Now she was curled up next to somebody else, in a strange house, tucked between a stranger’s sheets, a thousand miles away while he sought solace in the stars and sunny landscapes of the most obscure town he could find to bury himself in. Dean turned over, the white light of his smartphone illuminating the darkened room, throwing everything into shadows. There are no messages, and he turned back over, trying not to feel pathetic, trying not to feel anything at all.

A couple of minutes later, when a skinny tangle of unbrushed hair and small limbs curl around him, Dean relaxes, smiling into his daughter’s hair, and holds her close. She smells like sunshine and vanilla and apple, reminding him that tomorrow will come, even when it seems so unlikely. He presses a kiss to her forehead and pulls her to his side, where he can hear her heartbeat. _We have each other, Mads. We don’t have her anymore, but we have each other. We have now._

It’s easier to drift off to sleep after that.

After school the next day, Maddie comes into the station, slinging her bag down at an empty desk and exchanging a quip or two with Jo and Jess, a part-timer Dean thinks privately would be perfect for Sammy. He fixes her a sandwich and gets a peck on the cheek in return. He made himself a cup of coffee, and was pouring over traffic safety records a while later when she comes trotting in.

“Daddy, my friend said his Daddy said to give this to you,” she announced, dropping something on his desk before Jo calls her to play a game of ping-pong, and she’s gone again. Dean glances up, and then glances again. Sitting innocuously on his desk, wrapped perfectly in a square of cellophane, is a piece of brownie.

Dean grins into his mug like a fool.


End file.
